


Season of Snowdrops

by ranichi17



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Backstory, Canon Era, Gen, Loss of Parent(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1890237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ranichi17/pseuds/ranichi17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“As his mother had failed him, he meditated on his country.”</i>  </p><p>The tragic history of the Feuilly family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Season of Snowdrops

If you asked him, Amaury Feuilly will tell you that the only mother he has known is France. But that was not always so.

Every story deserves to be told, even that of a working man who was a member of the group that almost became historical.

 

Amaury Feuilly was the only son of the parents he barely remembered, the only trace of a ruined family.

It is in Aix-en-Provence, back when the Emperor was still in power, where our journey begins.

No one else remembers this, but in a small community, there once was a man they called M. Feuilly. He was a notary who had a miserly uncle. This uncle was a bachelor, and M. Feuilly, being his only brother's son, was his natural heir.

M. Feuilly sought the hand of a maiden he met in Paris. This maiden, named Anne, was a grisette, a seamstress without family. This affair was not known to M. Feuilly's uncle, for if he did, he would surely be disinherited.

M. Feuilly had just passed his bar when he received word of his uncle's death, and with almost indecent haste, he made Anne his wife.

Thus they returned to his home, at the time when life bloomed abundantly, and the happy lovers took it as a sign that Heaven was blessing their union.

Community life in Aix-en-Provence was sleepy at times, so people passed juicy gossip when M. Feuilly came home with a strange orphan for a wife. Madame Feuilly, however, remained undaunted.

 

Bountiful spring gave way to a mild summer, and summer to melancholy fall, when at last, their union bore a fruit, in the form of a healthy boy, whom they named Amaury, in honour of M. Feuilly's father. The arrival of a son increased the couple's happiness. M. Feuilly, when informed by the midwife of the arrival of a son, loudly proclaimed that he would buy the whole of France if he could just for his son, to the immense laughter of his wife tired from labour.

In the months following Amaury's birth, his mother and father doted on him. Anne almost never left the side of the crib, except to do her chores, while M. Feuilly made faces at his son, enjoying Amaury's peals of laughter for hours afterwards.

So passed their happy years.

 

Then the fall.

Men and nations have been inexorably tied to each other since the dawn of time, and in their small community, the tiniest changes to the country affected them. Thus, when the Emperor fell, to be replaced by another king, they, too, soon followed. Famine arrived, lands were sold to the first bidder, people became burdened with debt, so much debt that they had to flee from debtors and go to the capital to hide.

The Feuillys were not exempt.

M. Feuilly’s practice failed, as no one would think of hiring a notary when there are starving babes to be fed. His small inheritance had also dried up, as a swamp does when rain has not arrived to bless it.

Madame Feuilly had to return to the job that sustained her in her maiden days, in a factory in a neighbouring town. Her husband, on the other hand, was forced to do work with his hands for the first time. He was employed as a builder in Toulon, only allowed to return to his family once a fortnight. Nevertheless, they remained happy.

 

But happiness was a fleet-footed nymph, leaving as she pleased.

M. Feuilly, although allowed to return only twice a month, sent long, loving letters to his wife and son, arriving on their doorstep almost every day without delay.

Then one day, they stopped.

 

Madame Feuilly was not worried, however, for it was winter, and the post always arrived late during those months. Still, she could not shake off that uneasy feeling she had.

The post arrived a day after, but the letter Madame Feuilly received was not from her husband. It was from the man who employed him, and it was an apology. Her husband had an accident, a fall from the building they were constructing, and he died instantly. The letter also contained a few francs, “as compensation,” it said.

Madame Feuilly was overcome with grief, yet remained quiet. Her husband was dead, they were deep in debt, and she had a small child. She knew what men did to women with a small child and no husband. So she did what she thought would be for the best. She gathered up their meagre possessions, dressed herself and her son in mourning, and rode the next omnibus headed for Paris.

 

When they arrived, she relocated her old apartment in the Latin Quarter, and settled in. Her job as a seamstress gave them an income, enough for two meals a day. It is difficult to look at her son now, for as the days go by, he looks more and more a replica of the man she loved.

As it had been in Aix-en-Provence, women whispered about her. They gossiped horrible things about her, that she was a loose woman, her child born out of sin. She wept when she found out. If they only knew what she had been through.

Soon, the rumours reached their employer, and she was fired, for having a woman of town work in their establishment would ruin them.

         

They sleep through most of the day now, she and her son. For their waking hours fill them with pangs of hunger. Amaury, her poor son, keeps on staring at the pantry. There is no food to be found there. Poor innocent soul, he is too young to understand.

She starts selling their things one by one, but even that is not enough. Soon their landlady kicks them out on the curb, for the have not paid rent a whole year now. Thankfully, she finds a roof above their head, paid with the last of her savings.

She rubs her ring clean, the one her husband gave her when they were married. It is the only thing she owns now, save for the clothes she has on her back. It is the last thing she can sell. She looks at her son, still slumbering peacefully beside her, and she hopes he would survive past this bitter winter. She kisses his forehead, sickly pale with malnourishment, then walks away, quietly closing the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> This probably stemmed from the fact that I was reading crap romance again. Originally, M. Feuilly was going to ruin the fortune through gambling, then kills himself and his wife in a murder-suicide, and ended up unable to pull the trigger on his innocent son, but I decided against that. You're welcome.
> 
> Again, send your complaints to my [tumblr](http://ranichi17.tumblr.com) if you have time.
> 
> Someday a happy fic, but that day is not today.


End file.
